A Thousand Ships
by scriptmanip
Summary: One-shot: set within premise of Katie's series 4 episode. It all starts at the harbour. But, then again, it started long before then.


**Author's Note: **I wrote this for my mate **fookyeahskins **because her Keffy flails bring me great joy. Just a quick one-shot borne out of the scene that launched a thousand Keffy ships. Cheers!

* * *

"So you've been sacked then?"

Effy's finished the fag you'd been sharing, starts a second one with two flicks of a lighter.

"Apparently," you say, watching as the smoke she exhales drifts out towards the water. You're not looking at her, for no reason, just watching the harbour through the filter of her cigarette smoke.

"Nose bleeds not really within the wedding planner's code of conduct, I suppose."

You smile at this, at her, and nearly allow yourself a fucking laugh, as if this kind of exchange is old hat between the two of you. "Right," you say, returning your gaze to the choppy, grey water. It's fucking dreary, this spot. It's fucking appropriate.

Time passes, and you've had such a shit day as it is, it doesn't even matter that you're sat here, like, sharing a moment with a girl who once left you for dead.

"Do you want to fuck off then?"

You eye her, cautiously, as she breathes in, the smoke escaping her lips when she clarifies:

"Do you want to get out of here, I mean."

It's the sort of thing blokes say to you at the club when they sense a window of opportunity to pull. When you've had just enough liquor to let yourself go there, uninhibited. And you can always see the glimmer in their eyes – that glint of hope that sex is forthcoming. The correlation actually _does_ make you laugh. Because the idea of Effy feeding you chat-up lines is easily the most ludicrous thing you've never before imagined.

Since you're laughing a bit and Effy's not, you clear your throat enough to answer, "What – and hide out in the fucking shed with you and Freddie? Thanks, but I'll pass."

"Freddie's not here."

You look at her again, expectantly, because the girl simply _refuses_ to speak in, like, plain English.

She looks back at you then, amused, you think, by your sudden interest, and says in a tone you know is fucking mocking your own, "Told him to 'fuck off, babe' – that we needed '_girl time_,' yeah?"

And you smile again, broader – even though it's not the right reaction to have when someone like Effy is obviously taking the piss – because the day of Pandora's stupid party, the time in your life that was so Danny-centric, seems like fucking lifetimes ago. Plus, Effy's inflection – of which her voice is usually totally vacant – is a spot on impersonation, which is almost fucking endearing, or something. Almost as if she'd been paying more attention to you over the past 18 months than you'd realised. Enough to, like, imitate you for a laugh at least.

The truth is, you want to hang out with the girl who split your head open about as much as you want to watch Emily undress Naomi; but, in light of what you'd left this afternoon – your mum going fucking mental, your dad gone altogether – suddenly Effy's company is the more appealing option over almost anything else.

Plus, she's usually fucking _drowning_ in top grade gear.

"Whatever," you say, noncommittally.

Which you know she's translated when she smiles back, "Cool."

* * *

You get absolutely loaded at a bar that isn't Keith's pub, for once. Then end up in a car park, on the top level, smoking spliff while sat on a wall that would, under normal circumstances, be fucking terrifying. Except you've snorted something without asking what it was, taken a medley of shots – one of which you're certain was whiskey [fucking, Effy] – and now feel your body mellowing with every inhale. So your legs just dangle over the edge, without alarm. And you're just totally, fucking mesmerised by this view of Bristol – like with a bit of perspective at this altitude, everything you're sure you hated about it has shifted.

Effy's laid back, her head closest to your thigh, and her legs stretched out for fucking metres along the cement wall.

"What time is it?" you ask, passing the spliff to her. The transition is seamless even though it's completely dark and you're not even concentrating enough to see her hand.

"Does it matter?" she counters, in a way that is neither confrontational nor even engaged, really.

And considering the fact that your dad's probably fucked off, maybe for good, and Emily's moved out, no longer worrying about where you are or when you turn up – you realise that it doesn't matter at all. Nothing does, probably.

So you fall silent again, continue to pass the spliff that's thinning with every exhale.

* * *

You know the high is waning when a chill runs up your arms and legs [since you're still dressed in very little, like a slag and all]; and the view is no longer spectacular, like you'd imagined it. Effy doesn't even move a muscle when you flip your legs over the opposite side of the wall and jump down from your perch. She isn't sleeping, but maybe just slower to respond, because she still hasn't moved when you're at least six steps away. The click-clack of your gaudy shoes echoing loudly.

Stopping to look at her – splayed out like a sunning lizard or something, except it's probably near midnight and fucking freezing, actually – you finally say, "You fucking coming then?"

And her head falls to the side so that when she opens her eyes, the yellowed lights along the perimeter of the car park reflect across them. "Where?" she scratches out, like she hasn't spoken in a long while. Because, well, you haven't spoken to each other in hours.

You shrug, cross your arms and rub your hands along them because your skin is now ridged with tiny chill bumps.

"Does it matter?"

It must be later than midnight, maybe much later, because the streets are fucking empty. In this way that would be totally eerie if you were alone. If you didn't have Effy sauntering lazily beside you. Because you've always, and you're not sure why, thought of her as untouchable. It's the boots maybe – all scuffed and worn with those big buckles that clang as she walks. But then the idea that somehow Effy – boots or not – could somehow _protect_ you, is fucking laughable.

"Care to share?"

And it's only then you realise you were, in fact, laughing.

"You're not really very intimidating, are you?" you say. As if it's just hit you then, that Effy is just a girl. A rather slight and probably fragile girl, and not the picture of some mysterious pariah you once painted.

"Who ever said I was?"

"Probably no one," you shrug.

* * *

You turn up at a string of row houses when Effy pauses, and you're confused for only a second before you think: right, she must live here, obviously. Which is when you realise you've been following her all this time, instead of wandering aimlessly like you'd thought. It's so fucking typical you actually roll your eyes.

"Do you want to," Effy starts, her thought trailing off when she looks up at you. And you have no idea what the fuck it means that _she's_ suddenly the one feeling unsure of herself around _you_.

"What," you scoff, folding your arms over your chest, "have a sleep over? Braid each other's hair and compare techniques on giving blow jobs?"

"Is that what friends do?" she asks with as much sincerity as you think she can muster at half past two when loads of drugs and booze are still coursing her bloodstream.

"How the fuck should I know," you say rather blandly, because – save for Emily – you don't really have any. And factoring in your _twin sister_, for chrissake, is pathetic anyway. So you add, "Besides, we're not friends."

It looks like she wants another fag – or _needs_ one, at the very least, the way she's fidgeting about, pulling her hands out of her jacket pockets then stuffing them back in.

"I've got to get home," you say, and it's probably true, even if nothing of your old life seems recognisable anymore. Even if no one is waiting up, wondering where you are.

Effy's gone mute or something, which isn't fucking surprising, so it's not that awkward then, when you turn and walk off in what you hope is the direction of your house.

"Can't you stay a bit?"

The words are thrown against your back but hit you square in the chest – desperation sounding so foreign in Effy's tone of voice.

You're fucking exhausted, having worked all day at keeping up appearances – entertaining WAGs once in pearls then again in fishnets – and going to sleep in your own bed is probably the only thing that can make you feel a bit better, considering everything that's happened. Because having your family crumble apart, and losing some stupid job, in addition – these are obviously the least of your fucking problems.

So you have no idea why, minutes later, you're climbing the stairs to Effy's room.

* * *

Another few hits from a vodka bottle Effy's pulled from her nightstand, and the drugs circulating your system seem to reignite – until everything in her room is tilting left then right, sort of pleasantly.

You don't even hesitate to, like, lounge back on her bed, kicking your shoes off and crossing your legs at the ankles, like you hang out here fucking regularly. Effy sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed, rolling a spliff on a large, hard copy of _War and Peace_ that's balancing across the space where her legs are folded.

"Do you suppose this is Freddie's wet dream?" you muse, after swallowing back a mouthful of vodka that doesn't even burn anymore.

Effy looks up at you, bringing the spliff to her mouth and slowly running her tongue along the paper before rolling it between her nimble fingers.

"Two girls he's fucked in bed together?"

You laugh, because it sounds so much seedier than it actually is; and then think, Effy could make the prayers at Mass sound sordid just by saying them aloud.

She sparks the spliff, takes two long drags, and then looks at it between her fingers before she says, "Let's do blowbacks."

"Sorry?"

"You didn't braid my hair," she smirks, "the least you can do is play along, Katie."

It's so easy to give in to old habits – falling prey to Effy's bidding just as if nothing had ever happened. Like she isn't responsible for ending your relationship Freddie, or like, changing your entire perspective of yourself. Like she hasn't left damages – namely the one you see every time you're applying eyeliner.

But then, Effy never asked you for anything before. _You_ chased after _her_, giving her unsolicited attention, engaging with her without any prompting. You remember that, then.

"You're so fucked up," you say, and at least part of you is referring to the amount of drugs you know she's taken tonight.

"So are you," she answers, and it feels like, for once, she's put you on her level.

So you sit up then, screw the cap back on the bottle of vodka you've been clutching and move to the middle of the bed, folding your legs until you're mirroring Effy. She moves to sit in front of you, tucks her legs underneath and rests on her knees. She looks almost childlike, the way she's sort of hunched forward in anticipation of this stupid game you're about to play.

"You go first," you say, when she's held out the spliff, offering it to you. It was her fucking idea anyway.

But she's being difficult – both by not talking _again_, and by insisting you take the damn thing. So you do.

"Fine. Whatever," you say, place the thing between your lips and then sit up a bit until you're closer to Effy's face than you have been since she was wielding a fucking rock.

She cups your face and you try not to flinch because there's, like, hot ash close to your tongue and all. And then she's inhaling the opposite end as you blow out, her eyes searing into your own, during which feels like the longest, fucking blowback you've ever tried.

You've barely removed the spliff from between your lips, sensing maybe a piece of ash has fallen onto your tongue when you realise Effy's still incredible close, a hand that was once on your cheek now slid around to your neck. And the rest happens in a quick succession.

Effy starts to exhale a stream of smoke that ends up in your mouth because it's slightly parted already, and then you feel her bottom lip against yours. She keeps at it, kissing you – even after you think she's finished pushing all the smoke from her lungs into your own – and then realise that whatever game she's playing at, you're playing along. You always have, when it comes to her; and you still, _still _can't figure out why.

And it's well disturbing just how easily you find yourself, like kissing a fucking girl.

You're leant back – somehow supporting your own weight against the palms of your hands even though you're well fucked up, _obviously_ – and Effy's, like, straddling you, for fuck's sake, which is when you finally manage to snap out of it enough to say something.

"Effy – what the fuck?" You push against her chest with just one hand, watch it move in time with her heavy breaths. And it would be completely, fucking unnerving – seeing Effy become a bit unravelled like this – except you can't really catch your breath either.

She pauses, just hovering with these wild eyes and ragged breaths. You look to your left, find the spliff is still pinched between your thumb and forefinger.

She finally says to a spot just over your left shoulder, "I don't – I don't know."

You move your hand in front of her, the one holding the spliff, and she takes it, leans back so she's sitting on your legs, and there's this heat – you can fucking _feel_ it from underneath your stockings, radiating onto your thighs – that's highly disconcerting.

Effy takes a long pull then holds it towards your mouth, her two fingers just resting against your lips as you take a drag.

When she reaches upwards, places the remainder of the thing in an ash tray beside her bed, it's probably your cue to, like, get out from underneath her. Except you don't, just lean back and rest on both hands again while Effy just fucking sits there on your legs and looks at you.

"So this is it then?" you finally say, dejected. Tired.

"What?" she answers, with as much uncertainty as you've ever heard from her.

"The only way you know how to fix things is to fuck them away." It's meant to be a slight, your voice grating as much as you're capable for how fucking exhausted you feel. But then you think, there's probably some truth to it too, from the way Effy's looked away to the window. The way she's started to chew on her lip.

"Can't this be something else?" She can't look at you, not even after you've let the question hang between you without answering, without fucking breathing, for several seconds.

Which is when you do move from beneath her, slide your legs so they're dangling off the bed and keep your back to her when you say, "This can't be anything, Effy."

You think about finding your shoes – _really_ wish you'd brought some kind of jacket because of course it's bloody raining now – and leaving. But your muscles are aching and your head is throbbing and you really don't trust your limbs to carry you, like, down the staircase let alone back to your house.

"I've got to sleep here. I'm fucking exhausted, yeah?"

When she answers, you can tell she's moved toward the window even though, as per usual, her movements haven't caused a sound.

"Stay. I'll sleep downstairs."

The smoke from her cigarette stings your nose and you think about tossing right onto the floor. Instead, you lie back on your side, curl your legs up and tuck both hands under your chin. "Don't be stupid," are the last words you manage before falling asleep.

* * *

When day breaks, and it's probably only been a few hours, Effy's room lightens significantly because it's, like, the stark white of mental facilities you've seen on telly. The throbbing against your skull has multiplied itself so that opening both eyes at once feels like your being speared through both temples.

With some slight movement you realise a few things at once.

It's warm beneath the blankets of Effy's bed. You didn't crawl under them before falling asleep, just collapsed on top of them before falling asleep rapidly.

You're rather comfortable – much more so than you should be considering the ridiculous outfit you'd been wearing the night before. But your legs are smooth against the bed linens, unbound by fishnet stockings or tight, black leather.

So you squint, painfully, under the blankets to find yourself in a tee shirt, the logo of an old American band faded across the front, and nothing else.

The second before an uneasy panic can settle into your stomach, you look back up to find that you're also alone. Empty bed, empty room. The panic subsides only marginally.

When you see the tea and toast, something else rises up in you that's completely unrecognisable. You ignore it entirely.

There's not steam rising from the teacup and the toast is a little cold to the touch, and suddenly, the thought of Effy having stood beside you while you slept is the only thing that feels worse than your hangover.

Which is when you see the note.

It's folded in half and stood like a tent just behind the plate of toast. When you reach for it, you recognise the paper as a label, ripped from a carton of fags. Propped up on one elbow, you flip it over to see Effy's scrawled handwriting:

_Can I fix it with tea and toast instead?_

* * *

Effy's not in the kitchen when you wander downstairs – in the sodding tee shirt, no less, because your skirt and stockings sound like the worst combination for how shit you still feel – so you pop your head into the sitting room.

She's wearing a similar shirt, though hers a bit more threadbare and covering far less skin for how long her fucking legs are. So when you sit down on the opposite end of the sofa, you look like a set of dishevelled bookends.

"Alright then?"

And it doesn't make any sense, why ingesting your weight in alcohol, smoking spliff, and snorting powder with Effy, of all people, would make you feel better about anything. Your home life is still shit, Emily is still slipping further away, and your insides have still fucked you out of having kids.

But when you look up at her – when you realise she might be the only person in your life actively trying, really _trying_, to make things better – a smile crosses your lips that's quickly mirrored on her own.

"So long as we never again do blowbacks, babe, I'd say we're sorted."

She smiles something brighter, something that completely counteracts the threat you'd meant to impose with your own raised eyebrows.

Her lighter clicks three times, and you watch her chest contract with a long drag. For some reason, your hand sweats in the creases.

When she exhales, this lazy plume of smoke covers her face which is, though you loathe to admit it, rather lovely in the morning.

"Never say never, Katie."


End file.
